


Ace of Dragons

by DragonBandit



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: All of it is in the past, Asexual Character, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Tevinter Culture and Customs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 19:32:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5303939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonBandit/pseuds/DragonBandit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dorian comes to Bull's room there a moment where Bull thinks it's going to be easy. The Altus is an open book, Bull knows exactly what to give him. Except he's wrong. And suddenly Dorian is a lot harder to work out.</p><p>Or: Dorian is Asexual, and has never been good at making healthy decisions. The Bull finds a way to help. Eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ace of Dragons

**Author's Note:**

> All dubious consent is dealt with and/or is in the past. Within the story there is no sex with anyone who does not give enthusiastic, consistent consent.  
> Dorian refers to himself as broken and similar due to Tevinter Bullshittery. This may make some people uncomfortable.  
> Please tell me if anything else needs tagging. 
> 
> Summary is pending. If anyone has better ideas for it please feel free to suggest them.

_“That’s right. These big, muscled hands could tear those robes off while you struggled; helpless in my grip. I’d pin you down, and as you gripped my horns, I. Would. Conquer. You.”_

_“Ahh… What?!”_

_“Oh? Is that not where we’re going?”_

_“No! It was very much not!”_

* * *

 

Dorian stares into his mug of suspiciously awful ale and grimaces. It’s been hours since The Bull had said those fateful words, and Dorian still couldn’t get them out of his head. Conquering him. The Bull ripping through his treasured clothes like they were nothing more than rags and taking him.

The image makes Dorian shudder. He swigs down his mug and immediately gestures for it to be filled again. He’s going to need a lot of alcohol for this--

_“I'm just saying, Dorian; you carry around this picture of the Qunari in your mind. Like, you see us as this forbidden, terrible, thing. And you're inclined to do the forbidden.”_

\--An awful lot of alcohol.

The fact of the matter is this: If he goes, he’ll be a laughing stock. If he doesn’t go, everyone will know. What red blooded man alive with an interest in men wouldn’t want a tumble with the Bull?

Well, Dorian.

He’s been a laughing stock before for things worse than this. Surely, what’s one more night in someone else's bed? What’s one more night tearing at sheets and writhing under another man's mass in the most disgusting, degrading way imaginable to keep his secret to himself?

Better to be laughed at for riding the Iron Bull than for everyone to know just how broken Dorian is.

Unbidden, the sight of Bull flexing enters Dorian’s mind's eye. The vast chest of rippling muscles, the broad back and thick arms. So large and powerful and… utterly terrifying.

He’ll go. Take up Bull’s offer of getting conquered. Leave before dawn and pretend that nothing has changed. Because it hasn’t. It’s just sex.

Dorian is from Tevinter. He knows how this works.

That doesn’t mean he’s going to go anywhere near the hulking mass of warrior without being well and truly drunk for it.

* * *

 

It’s late when someone raps hard at the door to Bull’s room. He’s expecting it, has been since he saw Dorian stare at him across a mug of ale at the tavern.

They’ve been dancing around each other for weeks. It’s about time that Dorian finally got the balls to take what he needs.

Bull opens the door with a smirk, filling up the frame in a way he knows looks good to people who like focusing on how big he is. People like Dorian.

Dorian who is definitely on the wrong side of drunk judging by the gasp that he doesn’t bother to muffle, and the high spots of red on the usually dusky cheeks.

“Well hello,” Bull purrs, “You took your time.”

Dorian smiles, “I’ve developed an unfortunate immunity to the effects of Fereldan ale. Are you going to let me in?”

Bull lets his smirk turn into something darker, something more suited for a dangerous beast. “I dunno, big guy. I thought you weren’t that interested.”

“If you’re trying to make me beg you’re going to have to do better than that.” Dorian snaps.

Bull laughs, stepping back into his room to allow Dorian entrance. “Is that a promise?” He murmurs into the mages ear as he passes.

Dorian shudders, head tilting away from Bull and offering his neck up to Bull’s lips. Such a pretty, perfect picture. Bull is going to have fun ruining him.

Whatever Dorian plans to say next get’s swallowed in an absolutely filthy kiss. Bull pinning the man against the now closed door with as much of his weight as he thinks Dorian will be able to take and licking into his mouth. He tugs at the mages hair, hard, jerking Dorian’s head backwards and finding a better angle of attack until Dorian moans, hips jerking up against Bull and Bull can feel--

Absolutely nothing.

He breaks the kiss. Takes in flushed skin and kiss bruised lips and scrunched up closed eyes. The way Dorian is shaking in his grasp. Fuck.

Bull backs off. Puts enough distance between them until he’s no longer invading Dorian’s personal space. He stays close enough that Dorian can reach out to touch him, draw him back. Dorian doesn’t.

“What did I do wrong?”

Dorian stills. Head tilting away to rest against the wall. “Aren’t you going to conquer me?” He taunts, eyes opening to stare at Bull with a cold calculating gaze that makes something in his stomach churn.

“Aren’t you meant to be into this?” Bull says back. His eye drops to Dorian’s crotch, where through the tight leather Bull can see exactly how little of an effect he’s had.

* * *

 

Dorian laughs, “If you think you’re going to turn me on with just a bit of kissing and pinning me to the nearest wall then you’re sadly mistaken.”  

Shit, Dorian thinks, and then repeats it because Oh Maker, he’s an idiot. Why on earth did he ever think it would have been a good idea to up against the Ben-Hassrath spy in a game of lies?

He can’t even blame the ale, he’s not that drunk. Drunk enough to feel it, not enough that his wits have completely abandoned him, but apparently drunk enough for his usually perfect, impeccable mask to fail him just at the crucial moment.

Bull is staring at him. The weight of his gaze heavy enough that Dorian can feel it on his skin. His back straightens, mask falling to settle into a sneer.

“Or are you worried you won’t live up to all of your boasting?”

“You’re afraid of me,” Bull rumbles.

“You’re awfully large,” Dorian dismisses. “And you’re everything my parents have been warning me about since I was old enough to listen.”

“So never then.”

Dorian smirks, “Yes exactly. Now come back here and _conquer me_.” He hopes it will work. Taunting is usually a terrible idea but he needs Bull to stop thinking. To not notice the flinch that Dorian can’t help when he talks about conquering.

He thinks he’s managed it when Bull comes back. So impossibly close that Dorian has to crane his neck up an uncomfortable distance to meet the Bull’s eye.

“I’m not fucking you if you’re scared of me.”

It’s meant to be an out. A bad one. If he leaves now then he’ll have admitted that he’s afraid, and he isn’t. Not from the Bull. Dorian doesn’t bother to think about the thing he is afraid of here. In this tiny room with it’s hole in the ceiling that isn’t going to muffle his screams to the rest of Skyhold one iota.

He is Dorian of House Pavus. He is of Tevinter and he is not afraid of what one unwashed,  qunari savage can do to him.

He lets his gaze grow dark, heated, “Is that a promise?”

* * *

 

Bull looks down, takes in Dorian Pavus, and doesn’t quite know what to make of the man. He growls, low in his throat and watches as Dorian shudders. Could be from arousal, except for the way that Dorian’s head tilts away from Bull’s and his eyes don’t dilate, instead they close; hiding themselves.

“Yeah,” Bull says, taking in the way Dorian’s breath hitches slightly, “We're not doing this.” He steps back again. Giving Dorian the space to stop feeling so threatened. How long has the mage been frightened of him? How long has Bull missed something that should have been obvious?

He’d been sure-- Hell Dorian can barely take his eyes off the Bull when they’re wandering around Thedas together. The interest had been obvious there. In the way Dorian had held himself up taller, had tilted towards Bull and smiled like he couldn’t help himself when Bull teased.

Bull knows what he’s doing here. Or he should know. Should have had Dorian a writhing mess in his bed minutes ago, instead of the tense, frightened thing that is looking between Bull, the floor, and the closed door.

Dorian smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Right. I’ll just be going then shall I?”

“How long have you been afraid of me?” His insides are like ice, cold horror wondering how long he’s been terrorising Dorian for under the guise of flirting and harmless propositions that hadn’t had any heat to them except that Dorian was hot when he was flustered and caught between his two selves. The spoiled Tevinter Altus who wouldn’t lift a finger for anyone else unless he could get something out of it, and the charming, selfless man that complained about the weather and the cold and loved Fereldan ale even though it would kill him to admit it.

Dorian shrugs. “I’m not afraid of you,” he insists.

“Bullshit.”

“Is that supposed to be another of your awful puns?”

Bull just stares, waiting.

Dorian stares back, crossing his arms and huffing, “I’m really not scared of you, Bull.” He steps towards the door, “and if you’re not going to entertain me I think I’ll see myself out if it’s all the same to you.”

“You’re running away,” Bull says.

Dorian just continues to smile, “Yes, it appears I am. And you’re not going to stop me.”

“I should.”

“Why? So you can ask me more useless questions? You’re a spy. I’m sure you can figure all of it out without me.” He waves a hand in dismissal, without turning round, “You can think of it as a challenge if you’d like.”

Bull lets him leave. He stares at the wooden door for a long while after, the smell of Dorian fading from the room until-- like the man-- it’s gone completely.

“Well,” Bull says slowly. “Shit.”

* * *

 

Dorian doesn’t go back to his room, instead heading to his nook in the library. He needs something to take his mind off of this mess. Nerva’s Theory of Applied Glyphs seems the exact sort of book to get all thoughts of the Bull out of his head entirely. At least for a few hours.

It doesn’t work. Dorian gives it up as a lost cause after he realises he’s read the same passage four times over. His brain isn’t taking anything in. Instead it keeps going back to the Bull, and remembering very clearly that he set Bull a challenge.

He dared the Ben-Hassrath spy to find out all his messy personal secrets. The skeletons in the closet, the blood mages in the family tree, all the things that Dorian doesn’t want anyone touching with a pike. Let alone getting all close and personal, like Bull will invariably will.

He huffs, turning the page of the book over just to give himself something to do.

‘Idiot,’ he chides at himself. He hasn’t been that bad at masking his true thoughts since he was seven. There’s just something about Bull that gets under Dorian’s skin. Something warm and soft and intoxicating like all the best things are. A low heat that spreads across his shoulders when the man claps his hand across them. The handprint staying for days until Dorian starts to believe that the Bull is the best way to stay warm in the south.

He swallows, and stops that thought before it can go any further.

He’s not going to think about the completely ridiculous crush that’s managed to develop over the past few months. He can’t. Bull wants things that Dorian can’t give him.

Bull likes sex. Revels in sex. Has bedded half the people in Skyhold and left many happy individuals in his wake. And Dorian… well.

It’s just not viable.

* * *

 

“I’m not scared of you,” Bull tastes in his mouth again. “I’m _not_ scared of you.” Except that hadn’t been how Dorian had said it. “I’m not _scared_ of you,” No. That’s wrong too. And so has every other version Bull’s tried in the past hour.

He’s on to something here though. He can almost smell it. His old training dissecting everything Dorian has said to him since their first meeting and trying to work out what the hell just happened.

He’d been so sure he’d known how to handle Dorian. Thought the man had needed something strong, something to struggle against safely while submitting and allowing Bull to take care of him. Let that stupid mask fall for once and let pleasure take over. Stop pretending to be something he wasn’t.

The man who had knocked on Bull’s door had been just as fake as the man that smiled at Orlesian nobles while drinking expensive wine like water. Just as fake as the man that flirted with the skirts and made bold claims about being evil simply for his heritage.

Bull clicks his tongue wordlessly, turning it all over in his head. He stares up at his ceiling and tries to work it all out. Tries to work out how he’d gotten a mannequin instead of the fiery mage he had expected.

He wonders if Dorian would have let Bull fuck him, if Bull hadn’t noticed in time that the shivers were from shock and fear, instead of arousal. That thought makes his insides freeze because he knows the answer already, and doesn’t like it.

Yes, Dorian would have.

Dorian would have let Bull rape him.

“Fuck,” Bull says. “What the fuck, Dorian.” Like hell Dorian’s not afraid of him. He’d been scared enough to offer himself up willingly for something he clearly hadn’t wanted to--to what?

And there Bull’s house of cards falls again. It doesn’t make sense. He knows Dorian, knows him enough at least to see the firm, unwavering core that is Dorian’s sense of self and autonomy.

It had never, as far as Bull could see, included a willingness to let himself get raped. So why had Dorian come to his room? He’d left it open ended on purpose. An invitation, a suggestion. Not an order.

Ordering would have come later, when they’d had a long talk about what they both liked and watchwords. And if this was going to a regular thing, or just a one off night of passion for curiosities sake.

And yet, “I’m not afraid of _you_.” Bull tries again. Yes, that’s how Dorian had said it.

“So what are you afraid of?” Bull asks the empty room.

* * *

 

He watches. Little things at first, trying to get a read on a man that is no longer as straightforward as he had appeared. Bull isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but he figures if he watches long enough something will stick out. Some sort of pattern will emerge.

Dorian acts like the night in Bull’s room didn’t happen. Which, okay, fine, because nothing did happen. And it’s his business what he says or doesn’t say. Their companions on the other hand… Well Bull isn’t exactly known for being subtle.

“I’m surprised you can walk after last night, Sparkler,” Varric says cheerfully as they trek across the Hinterlands again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dorian responds, equally cheerful. Bull’s eye narrows, as does Varric’s. They’ve both known Dorian long enough to know when he’s being evasive.

“You and Tiny,” Varric continues anyway, “You wouldn’t happen to have anything worthy of my books would you?”

Dorian laughs, a sharp brittle thing, “Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” He strides forwards with a cocky grin plastered across his face, “Let's just say that I had fun and leave it at that shall we?”

“Have it your way,” Varric shrugs. He turns to Bull, “Are you going to tell me anything newsworthy? Like, for example, the reason I didn’t hear Sparkler and you being really loud all last night?”

Bull watches Dorian hide a flinch.

“Gags,” Bull says, not quite sure why he’s bothering to cover this all up. Hey, it’s not like he’s going to be insulted if other people know that Dorian isn’t into him like that. But apparently Dorian will be. Which, okay, weird. Another piece of a puzzle that Bull has full permission to put together.

Varric laughs, and the next time Bull is level with Dorian he’s granted with one of Dorian’s smiles. One of his _real_ smiles. The one that makes Bull think that they’re sharing some sort of secret joke, just for the two of them. The one that had made Bull start flirting in the first place, wanting to see more of that side of the man.

It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s panic hidden there now.

He is afraid of Bull. Maybe he hadn’t been before, when there was nothing on the line but Dorian’s reputation. The stakes are higher now. What is Dorian hiding that he’s so afraid that Bull will find it out?

The hidden fear should make Bull stop. It doesn’t and he only feels a little guilty about it.

Dorian had let Bull almost rape him. He doesn’t want to find out if that would have been the case with anyone else who tried to get Dorian into their beds, or if Bull is just special.

He really doesn’t want to find out if the answer's yes. So he watches, just to make sure no one else tries anything. Just in case Dorian doesn’t know how to say “no”.

* * *

 

The weird thing about that, Bull realises after a week of skulking around in shadows and hiding in plain sight, is that no one actually asks Dorian.

Oh there’s flirting, Dorian’s flirts as easily as he breathes. But there’s never anything more to it. Even when someone’s obviously interested back. It gets close, sometimes. But never any actual propositioning.

Bull watches Dorian up on the ramparts with one of the other mages, chattering about magical techniques and theory that go over Bull’s head by a mile. The body language though, he can read easily. It helps that it’s in large print, he’d have to be an idiot to not understand it.

Both of them leaning towards each other, heads bowed and smiling as Dorian makes broad gestures with his hands, obviously sure that he’s in the right of whatever mock-argument this conversation is on the surface.

He’s lit up, beautiful in the tilt of his smile and the laughter hidden in his voice. Bull feels like an intruder. He wonders if he’s wrong. There isn’t anything here, and he should back the hell off before this gets too awkward for everyone.

The mage Dorian’s flirting with drops his hand to Dorian’s hip. Dorian tenses and shivers. The slightest bit of movement as he shuts down behind his eyes. The rest of him doesn’t change. If Bull hadn’t have been watching so closely he’s sure that he wouldn’t have noticed anything at all.

But he is, and he does. Bull’s getting good at seeing when Dorian stops being Dorian, and starts being someone else.  

Dorian leans backwards, smiling all the while and making fond excuses as he turns his personal space into an impenetrable barrier. The hand on his hip falls, the mage attached to it maybe a little hurt, but shrugging. Not good enough for Dorian, Bull reads in that expression. Like no one is good enough for Dorian, stuck up brat that he is. There’s only a little bit resentment there, most of the expression is acceptance.

Maybe that’s all it is. No one’s good enough for Dorian.

But then why Had Dorian come to Bull’s room, when he could have refused just as easily as he has now? What makes Bull special?

* * *

 

Dorian knows he’s being watched. He is not an idiot and the Bull is rather large. It would be difficult not to realise he’s being watched. Across the chessboard, Cullen smirks at him, tapping his knight meaningfully that has nothing to do with the game.

“I know,” Dorian says. “he’s getting insufferable about it.”

Cullen chuckles, “What exactly did you do to warrant him following you everywhere in the first place?”

“I have no idea,” Dorian lies. He moves a bishop in a move that he can’t remember is illegal or not.

Cullen’s eyebrows raise, “What did you do?”

“Who says I did anything?”

Cullen just laughs, Dorian huffs. “It’s not at all as interesting as you think it is.”

“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?” He moves the knight, effortlessly taking Dorian’s castle. “Come on, you usually love telling tall tales.”

“This one's a little too tall to be told.”

“So you did do something.”

“Lies and slander!” Dorian pretends to splutter. “I have done nothing to warrant gaining another shadow. Especially not one that smells so awful!”

“Of course not,” Cullen smiles across the board, in a way that Dorian wishes would make his heart flutter. It would be so easy to fall in love with a man like Cullen. Already off limits in a way that Dorian could never hope to change.

He smiles back, empty flirtation borne of friendship and longing, “How about, if I lose I’ll tell you everything,”

“You always lose,” Cullen points out. “done.”

“We’ll see about that,” Dorian says with a smirk, and tries to remember how the knight's move again.

He can feel the weight of the Bull’s stare from across the courtyard, and resists the urge to shiver. With want or fear, Dorian isn’t quite sure anymore. He’s not entirely sure there’s a difference.

* * *

 

“You should tell Cullen,” Bull says days later. He’s been trying to work out what emotions had been in Dorian’s eyes during the chess game for awhile, trying to work out where it all fits together.

“What?” Dorian doesn’t bother to look at him. Does that mean Bull is on the right track here?

“That you want him. You should tell him.”

Dorian barks a laugh, “You’re not a very good spy are you?” he says as he turns just enough to eye Bull with condescension.

“I saw the way you looked at him.” With a longing that had made Bull’s stomach twist in ways that he isn’t going to think of.

“As you’ve seen all the ways I’ve looked at people for the past week,” Dorian waves his arms in a dismissal, “Our dear Commander is straight, as I’m sure you’re already aware. Even if I did want to sleep with him I rather think that he’s out of bounds.”

“Doesn’t change the fact you want him.” Bull rumbles, pushing the point for no reason but to see what Dorian will do.

Dorian scoffs, “Oh I wish I wanted him,” he says in an undertone that Bull only just hears and he’s sure he wasn't meant to make out at all. Louder, Dorian says, “If that’s the best you can do then I’ll have to reassess my opinion of what little intelligence I thought you possessed.” He strides forwards, leaving Bull to stare at his back in frustration.

What is it that he’s missing?

* * *

 

Out of all the things Bull knows about Dorian Pavus, there has always been one big one: He’s a liar.

Everything that comes out of Dorian’s mouth is in some small way helping to cement the persona that Dorian pretends is his real self. It’s all a calculation, a performance. Dorian is the sole actor on a stage that encompasses the entire world.

Except for those strange, still moments where he’s not.

When everything falls away and Bull gets a glimpse of someone completely unlike what he’s expecting.

The man who had come to Bull’s room had been the persona. The man that had shuddered in Bull’s grip had been real. The man that gazed across a chessboard at Cullen had been real, but so had the man that had muttered under his breath a more damning phrase than anything else Bull has managed to get out of him.

It’s contradictory, but Bull knows that he’s right. Dorian wants Cullen, but he doesn’t think he does. Or he does know but doesn’t want to think about it. Is there bad blood there? Some past that Bull will never be able to see but is colouring everything?

He wishes he wanted Cullen, Bull turns the phrase over in his mind. No matter what angle he looks at it the thing just doesn’t make sense with the evidence that Bull has. Actions speak louder than words; Bull learned that on Seheron and it’s kept him alive more than anything else has.

Dorian had looked at Cullen with longing.

Longing for what?

Bull smashes his axe into a training dummy that does not deserve to put up with the level of abuse Bull is currently giving it. Frustration at Dorian, at this puzzle he can’t solve bleeding through his movements.

Pretty ones, never can trust them.

* * *

 

The problem with just once more, Dorian muses as he stares into the bottle of wine, is that it never stays as just once. He smiles sardonically, chasing the last drops of alcohol in the bottle before picking up another. He’s not talking about the alcohol.

He has a date tonight. An actual, godforsaken date. It’s going to be awful.

It’s with a lovely man from the library, one of the ones whose job has managed to turn into picking up after Dorian when he’s on a research spree and can’t be bothered to shelve things in alphabetical order. His name is Benjamin.

He’s handsome as well, sharp as a whip and has a sense of humour that sometimes rivals Dorians at times.

He also won’t take no for an answer, and Bull has a routine that after two weeks people have finally started to note down. In the afternoons and midmorning he stalks Dorian around the keep, but in the evening he trains with his Chargers or by himself if the Chargers are doing a job. In the evening Dorian is blessedly alone.

There is no reason why he cannot go on a date in the evening. There is no shield for him to hide behind when he thwarts all advances that go in a direction that Dorian can never be comfortable with. It was only a matter of time regardless. He was already getting odd looks when he didn’t respond how they expected.

The South has been terrible for Dorian’s persona. Sometimes he forgets that he’s not a real person these days.

He raises a new bottle mechanically to his lips. He doesn’t shudder at the sharp flavour that he doesn’t think he’ll ever truly get used to; he’s already too drunk for that.

Ben is going to meet him on the ramparts, away from prying eyes he had said with a smile when Dorian had commented about how cold it would be up there. Of course, privacy is paramount when attempting to bed the Altus of the Inquisition.

If Dorian doesn’t start moving soon he’s going to be more than fashionably late. He can't have that. As much as he wants to worm his way out of this he really doesn’t have that as an option.

Ben is wonderful. Exactly the sort of man Dorian wished he could want. It’s not Ben’s fault that Dorian is broken. He probably wants to have a relationship. With Dorian. With actual names and everything.

Dorian swigs more of the wine.

He’s never been in a relationship before. Not a proper one, not since--well no need to think about that is there. He has no idea how to do this. At all. Even past the part where he’s going to fall into Ben’s bed with him.

If he stays here any longer he’s going to be late.

The walk up to the ramparts is just as abominably cold as Dorian expects it to be. Ben laughs when Dorian is in earshot, and pulls Dorian into a close, intimate hug. Dorian has never been colder in his life.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to come.” he says,

Dorian just smiles, “As if I would leave you to freeze here all by yourself.”

He ignores the way all the places where he’s being touched make his skin crawl, all the spots feeling like a prelude of what’s to come. Something far worse than mere hugs.

The mask raises as it always does. As it always will.

* * *

 

“The Iron Bull, I need you to explain something for me,” Cole says from Bull’s blind spot. Bull turns, half raising his axe before dropping it completely.

“You need to stop sneaking up on me,” Bull says, “One day you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me.” Cole says, calm and distant.

Bull snorts, but he lets go of the idea of training Cole out of being sneaky today. Maybe later, once someone’s taught him the real meaning of friendly fire.

“What do you need me for?”

“Why would someone do something that they hate for no reason?”

Bull considers Cole. The way he’s holding himself so his eyes are staring up at the walls of the fortress, and his weight tilts from side to side. Wherever Cole is he’s not with Bull, not completely.

“What’s happening?”

“Broad hands across my back and hips, wishing they were larger and hating it. It’s wouldn’t be any better with _him_. Despair twisting my insides. Just once more, just once more. It never is!” Cole stares at Bull, eyes wide and reflecting emotions that don’t belong to him, “He’s hurting so much Bull, thinks that’s the only thing he can be and won’t listen to anything else. Why does he keep doing this?”

Bull looks into blue eyes, and sees the same fear and resignation he had seen the night Dorian had come to his room. He doesn’t need any more time to connect the dots.

“Where is he?”

“So cold, seeping through my skin. Won’t matter soon heading to a building, a bunk, a bed,” Cole murmurs, he points, “There.”

Bull is already running.

* * *

 

The scene that greets Bull on the ramparts doesn’t look innocent by any means, but it doesn’t look that bad either.

Dorian is pinned to the low wall, getting thoroughly kissed in a way that from Bull’s point of view looks exactly like the sort of thing that Dorian would enjoy. But then Bull looks closer, and sees the way Dorian’s hands are hovering over the other man’s shoulders, and the slight stiffening of his posture when his legs are forced apart to accommodate another pressed between them.

It’s a good act, until you get close enough to see all the cracks in it. Bull wonders when he got good enough at watching Dorian that the cracks are glaring now, instead of just faint whispers of unease at the edges.

“Hey,” He says when he’s close enough to loom.

The men spring apart, the unknown--the mage that Bull had seen Dorian hanging around with Dorian before-- looking at Bull with anger. For being interrupted? Probably. His hand is still resting on Dorian’s hip. Dorian isn’t looking at Bull at all.

“I need Dorian for something.” Bull says.

“Now?” the man asks, “It can’t wait?”

“Not unless you wanna explain to the Herald why your business was more important than theirs,” Bull shrugs, “I wouldn’t do it if I were you.”

The man takes the hint. He leans, murmuring something inaudible in Dorian’s ear before going off to the tavern. Bull is left with Dorian.

“Hey,” he says again, when Dorian doesn’t do anything more than close his legs and pull his cloak more firmly around his shoulders. His entire body is set in resignation, once again he’s expecting Bull to do something horrible to him. How did Bull ever miss this before?

“I don’t suppose the Inquisitor actually needs me,” Dorian says.

“Nah, I just needed an excuse.” Dorian’s smile doesn’t reach past the slightest tilt of his lips. “You gonna tell me what this is about?”

Dorian looks up then, “You mean you haven’t already worked it all out?” There’s no heat behind the words.

Bull looks at the back of the retreating mage. Pretending to mull things over.

“Were you going to let him rape you?” he asks.

“Of course not,” Dorian snaps. Bull waits, turning to gaze at Dorian. The mage’s shoulders slump, head tilting back slightly, “It’s not rape if I say yes.”

Bull stares at him in disbelief, “You weren’t saying yes.”

“I didn't say no,” Dorian says, likes that matters. Bull looks at him with something like disbelief.

“Yeah, you were,” he says slowly. It’s everywhere in the firm line of Dorian’s back, the slant of his mouth the tenseness hiding in the curves of his wrists.

Dorians smile just widens, “I think you’ll find I didn’t.”

It’s with a sudden awful clarity that Bull understands. He wishes he didn’t just as quickly. He swears, one of the Tevene oaths that Krem says and feels perfectly appropriate considering the situation.

It makes Dorian snort.

“Oh I’m glad one of us finds this funny.”

“Hilarious,” Dorian says serenely, “Are you done?”  

Bull opens his mouth, intent on trying to yell some sense into the man, when Dorian shivers. Well, shivers more. He’s wearing his ridiculous get up again, the one that Bull is sure is more fashion statement than any sort of use keeping warm. All the anger dissipates.

“Let’s get you inside.”

“What?”

“You’re making me cold just looking at you, C’mon.”

Dorian lifts himself from the battlements, looking up at Bull with something like concern, “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Don’t make me carry you.”

Dorian laughs, before he stops. “No.” He says, “Why are you so involved in this?” His arms wrap around himself, visibly shutting himself off. Bull’s obviously rattled him if he’s bothered to show the impulse

“I don't like watching my friends get hurt.”

“We aren't friends,” Dorian says dismissively, reflexively.

“Yeah,” Bull says gently, “we are.” More than that, he thinks to himself, barely a whisper in his head. He’s not ready for that conversation yet. Might never be if Dorian doesn't stop self-destructing. “C’mon.”

This time Dorian doesn’t argue.

* * *

 

He’s sitting on Bull’s bed, staring at the floor and trying to work out how to explain this without giving anything away. He's not entirely sure that he's going to be able to do that.

At least Bull’s room is warm, save for the hole in the ceiling. Bull drapes a thick woolen blanket around Dorian’s shoulders. He’s not sure what to make of that, until he realises that he’s been shivering, hunching into himself to conserve heat. He draws the blanket tighter around himself.

“Thank you,” he says. It comes out wooden.

Bull’s knees enter Dorian’s field of vision. The awful pants obscuring the wooden floor and making Dorian’s eyes burn. He doesn’t look up. Can’t bear to.

“We need to stop dancing around this,” Bull says.

Dorian’s eyes close, “Do we have to?” He tries a smirk, “I really don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

“We’re friends,” Bull repeats, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. It’s not. They aren’t friends they’re--Dorian doesn’t know what they are.

“We’re not,” Dorian says again, but it’s empty. He pulls the blanket closer to himself. It smells like Bull. Dorian tries not to find that comforting. He doesn’t manage it. “It’s still none of your business.”

“You came to my room. You made it my business.”

Dorian laughs, “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

“No.”

“Why not?” And he opens his eyes then, looking up to stare at Bull with frustration. He meets Bull’s stare. Bad mistake. He’s not sure what he was expecting but it wasn't this. This warm, concerned confusion being directed at him. It makes him want to scream.

“Because you’re my friend, and I don’t like watching you hurt yourself.”

“We’re not--”

“Dorian.”

He can’t. He can’t deny it when he’s looking into Bull’s eye. “Fine,” he says, barely a whisper torn from his chest. “Fine.” He looks away, recovers enough of himself to choke out, “but I don’t see why you need me to tell you. I’m sure you’ve already figured it all out.”

The sheets of Bull’s bed are white. Far softer than Dorian would have suspected when he runs his hand down the grain of them. They’re by no means as nice as the set he’s managed to hoard for his own room but they're not at all the coarse things that Dorian would have suspected the Bull to favour.

“I have an idea,” Bull says, “You’re hard to figure out.”

“Should I be flattered?”

Bull doesn’t say anything. So they’re not playing the game where Bull guesses and Dorian can pick whichever truth is less incriminating. A shame, he’s good at that game. This one, not so much.

“It’s really not that exciting,” he tries again to deflect.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Dorian smiles. Inside his head a house of cards is crashing to the ground, and he’s going with it. He doesn’t say anything for awhile, and Bull waits with him. Not moving from where he’s knelt in front of Dorian. In any other situation Dorian would have made a joke of that, tilted this into something more with a flirtation that he can’t ever follow to it’s rightful conclusion.

He doesn’t know what to say. What lie does he have to make this right? To make this go back to the way Dorian knows is meant to be run? The one where the only time he would be in Bull’s room would be for sex. Not for this--- interrogation.

“I don’t like men,” he says finally. And he winces despite himself, because he means it this time. It isn’t the empty lie it usually is, brought out to placate worried relatives and prying eyes.

Bull snorts, Dorian can’t blame him. He’d been there during Redcliffe. He saw that whole debacle. “Sure.” Stop lying, Dorian hears.

“I mean it,” Dorian insists. He smiles, watching as the world burns. “I don’t like sex. I don’t like it with anyone.” He meets Bull’s eyes, doesn’t look into them though. He can’t, he can’t see the emotions there.

He can feel tears, at the edges of everything. Lending a blur to the world. “Me, the Tevinter Magister, so depraved to want the one thing never allowed. An actual, proper relationship.” And he laughs. Because it’s funny. And it’s funny to actually get to say it. When it isn’t shrouded in a lie, and there isn’t any way to take it back. Even if Dorian wanted to.

He feels rough, calloused hands cupping his face. “Okay,” Bull says. Nothing there but acceptance and just a little bit of confusion. Asking for something more.

Dorian only has one thing more. One more secret to share.

“And I have feelings for you,” Dorian breathes. Not thinking about it until it's already out of his mouth. His laugh turns into a sob. The tears fall.

* * *

 

Well, shit, Bull thinks. He’s not sure whether he should move back or not. Dorian is shaking on the bed, no longer from the cold. He’s crying, silent sobs that wrack through his body and Bull wants so badly to just reach out and hold him. He’s settled for the touch on Dorian’s face, not enough to do more than provide a tiny grounding.

Bull has never been very good at comforting.

 _“I don’t like sex.”_  Dorian had said. And yeah, that explains a lot. How Dorian doesn’t go past casual flirting, and how he averts his gaze whenever Bull and Sera get too graphic. Bull had always thought that had been Dorian trying on propriety. Maybe it had been, but with this spin on it it makes a whole lot more sense. _“I wish I wanted him,”_ indeed.

There had been a few people under the Qun Bull had known like this. Not many, but enough. Taarsidath-ras, they’d been called. Soldiers who’d never needed to visit the Tamassrans, who’d never sneaked looks at anyone else no matter how naked they all got. It hadn’t been an issue on Seheron.

Bull takes in Dorian. Obviously it had been more of an issue in Tevinter.

“Shit Dorian,” Bull murmurs. He gets it now. He thinks he does anyway. Fucking Tevinter. “Why’d you come into my room?” Why didn’t you say no?

“If I hadn’t there would have been more questions other than Varric teasing about me about being quiet,” Dorian says. Stating facts, “I couldn’t have that. I have an image to maintain.”

“Fuck your image,” Bull tries not to snarl, “You shouldn’t let people rape you just so they don’t talk.” his hands slip to Doran’s shoulders and he fights the urge not to shake him.

“It’s not rape.”

“It fucking is.”

Dorian’s head shakes, “I don’t say no. Do we have to fight about this?”

Bull relents, tries to get back into the state where he doesn’t want to murder everyone who had touched Dorian without his clear, consistent consent. “That depends. You going to let anyone else violate you?”

Dorian shrugs.

“Dorian.”

Dorian glares at him through the tears. Bull shouldn’t find that so hot. “What do you want me to say? No? That I’ll tell everyone to fuck off and wait until they call me frigid and don’t talk to me anymore because all I do is lead them on? Until one of them gets the bright idea that I need to--to be corrected?”

Bull growls, he’s definitely killing everyone who has touched Dorian before, “They didn’t.”

“Not here. Not yet,” Dorian says. “Thanks to you.” He pauses, eyes averting from Bull’s to stare at the curtains like they’re the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. “I suppose I should thank you for that.”

“Don’t bother,” Bull says. He feels mildly insulted.

“Why not? I’ve not gotten nearly so many propositions since you started stalking me.” he smiles grimly, “you make a wonderful excuse.”

“Great,” Bull says, “Keep using it.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’ll think we’re fucking,” Dorian hisses. He moves towards Bull, getting in his space and looming over Bull thanks to his advantage of height on the bed while Bul is sitting on the floor, “And I don’t share. So the game will be up as soon as you take the barmaid to your bed and I don’t throw wine in your face over it.” He makes a broad gesture with his hands, “And then someone will think to ask me why I didn’t fuck anyone else if we weren’t involved and there won’t be any way I’ll be able to explain _that._ ”

“So I don’t take anyone else to my bed,” Bull replies.

Dorian laughs, “You won’t be taking me either. You wouldn’t last a week.” his face shutters, and he pulls away back onto the bed. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed what we haven’t been talking about.”

Bull watches as the mage visibly closes himself off. Pulling the blanket around himself like a shield. He wants so badly to reach out, to cup Dorian’s face, to pull him into his lap so that Bull can protect him from the rest of the world. He doesn't, doesn’t deserve to. He can see in the tilt of Dorian’s spine that he’s still waiting for Bull to hurt him.

“You have feelings for me,” a statement, and a question.

“Yes. Ridiculous isn’t it. Anyway it would never work; you like sex far too much.” Dorian says, “I always manage to fall in love with the wrong person don’t I?” The last part is said much quieter, not meant for Bull’s ears. He wonders if Dorian’s realised he’s said it aloud

There’s a history there, but not one Bull’s currently interested in save for the fact it makes him think of a courtyard, and a chessboard, and the longing look Dorian had sent over the pieces. He thinks he understands that now too.

Dorian’s eyes are closed again. Defeated; Bull pushed him too far. He has hurt him. Bone deep hurt, and he’s only going to make it worse unless he works out what to say. What does Dorian need? What can Bull give him?

What will stop Dorian from letting people touch him when he doesn’t want it? What is Bull comfortable giving up to keep him safe?

It’s not really a question once he starts phrasing it like that.

“Dorian, look at me.” Bull says.

Dorian does, but it’s in the false way that means he’s not really there. Bull wonders how no one else sees how glassy Dorian’s eyes get when he’s putting on an act.

“No. Really look at me.”

Dorian huffs, but he acquiesces. The mask falls and what’s left is so terribly vulnerable that Bull has to reach out. Dorian flinches. The hand falls to the bed. Fuck.

“What do you want, Dorian?”

“You can’t ask me things like that.” Dorian says, a wounded sound in the back of his throat, “That’s not fair.”

“I don’t care. What do you want?”

“Stop being so _nice_. If you’re going to break my heart can you please just get on with it!”

Careful. He has to be careful. If he messes this up Dorian will never forgive him. “Why would I do something like that?” Bull says, and he reaches again, for one of the hands that Dorian has clutched into the sheets of the bed. He takes it, smooths out the digits with a tenderness he usually reserves for small animals, or for when his partner’s so deep in their head even the slightest touch is too intense.

Dorian clutches his hand hard enough it hurts.

“I’ve told you why,” he says, a small scream. “Because you’re _you_ and I’m _me_ and it will never work out. I'm never going to sleep with you and you smell terrible and have a deplorable sense in fashion that I really should not find attractive on any level.” Dorian makes an abortive gesture with his  free hand, “ And I’m from Tevinter and you’re a Qunari so we should really be at each other’s throats right now but you’re asking me what I want and being annoyingly kind even though I don’t deserve it at all and-- I -- I want-- Oh Venhedis!”

And then Dorian launches himself off the bed into Bull’s arms. Reaching up to seal Bull’s lips in a kiss.

It’s messy, tasting like tears and desperation and pleading for it not to end. Bull softens it, doesn’t take control away from Dorian but tries to quell the storm of emotions he’s trying to get across it. He nibbles on Dorian’s bottom lip, gathers the man up into a hug and coaxes out a whimper.

Bull kisses that away along with the tears until Dorian’s tired himself out. The emotions of the day finally catching up with him.

‘You have feelings for me,’ Bull thinks. ‘No, you love me.’ He holds it in his chest like the precious thing it is, stroking Dorian’s hair and down his back. ‘You love me,’ Bull thinks, It’s not the revelation it should be. Bull will have time later to panic about what this all means. When he’s not got a crying mage curled in his lap.

* * *

 

Later, much later, Dorian says, “I suppose you’re going to want to talk about it.” He feels… drained is the only word he has for it. Like he’s been casting spells for hours. Empty inside in a way that privately terrifies him.

“When you’re ready,” Bull says. He’s wrapped Dorian into his arms, both of them on the bed now. Still fully clothed. Something that Dorian suspects is an anomaly for this particular item of furniture.

“Just get it over with.”

Bull hums in agreement. A broad hand squeezing Dorian’s hip in what is probably meant to be comfort. Dorian is mildly annoyed that the gesture works.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” Bull says, “you’re going to have to talk to me about your limits. Actually talk. Not just wait for me to cross over anything so you can prove something to yourself.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Bull snorts.

“Well maybe I would,” Dorian admits. “but would it really be so bad if I did?”

“I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Dorian doesn’t quite know what to say to that. He’s not sure he’s ever going to get used to this. Having someone care about him.

“I don’t know where my limits are,” he says quietly. He doesn’t really want Bull to hear it, yet another admission that Dorian is broken beyond repair.

“Then you tell me when I cross em when you find out.” Bull says.

“Is that all it’s going to take? Talking?” Dorian huffs. It seems so simple.

Bull shrugs, “Well, yeah.”

Dorian meets his gaze. Tries not to flinch at the kindness in it. The warm sudden knowledge that it is going to that simple. Bull won’t let Dorian make any more complicated.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Dorian says. A cry for help that he can’t stop. “I really don’t. I’ve never been in a relationship before. Is that what we’re even doing here?”

Bull pulls him into a hug, solid and grounding. “We’ll work it out,” he says. and Dorian isn’t sure whether to smile or cry because he believes him. Damn him.

“You’re going to regret this,” he warns.

“Nah, I’m not.”

His lips choose to smile. And the rest of him chooses to reach up, stare at Bull’s lips in a question, “I’m holding you to that,” he says, right before he kisses Bull again. Something in his heart slots into place.

When he leaves he is going to have to pretend to be someone he isn’t again. That’s inevitable, has always been inevitable. But right now, right here, Dorian can be himself. He can be the version of himself that gets to kiss The Iron Bull and not have to think about going further. Who gets to smooth his hands against rough stubble and smile for no reason except that he can. And he get to be the version of himself, just for now, that believes that this--whatever this is, will work out.

He lets himself melt into the kiss. Just, for the moment he allows himself to believe that everything is going to be fine.

It won’t last. But right now, right now, this is enough. It has to be. Dorian isn’t going to get anything better.

A bittersweet thought. He kisses Bull again to make it go away. Strangely enough, it works.

 

 


End file.
